


the art of scraping through

by sinshine



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, M/M, chatty inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25725235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinshine/pseuds/sinshine
Summary: There were moments when Lavellan seemed every bit as fearsome as the rumors about the frightful Dalish Herald had promised. From the moment Dorian met him, he knew Lavellan to be a skilled and deadly opponent; flitting in and out of the shadows with a flash of his daggers and the gleaming edge of his smile. But in between the political battles and the actual battle-battles, were the long stretches of road that they traversed. Long stretches that Lavellan couldn’t seem to help but fill with idle chatter.[Scenes in the Emerald Graves, from the beginning of their relationship.]
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	the art of scraping through

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be part of something longer that didn't work out, but I still like this bit. :] Thanks for taking a look!

There were moments when Lavellan seemed every bit as fearsome as the rumors about the frightful Dalish Herald had promised. From the moment Dorian met him, he knew Lavellan to be a skilled and deadly opponent; flitting in and out of the shadows with a flash of his daggers and the gleaming edge of his smile. Beyond that, Lavellan was proving himself to be a shrewd politician, a clever strategist, and an adequate cook. (This last talent was only relevant when they were camping, but Dorian’s appreciation for this skill increased with time spent away from Tevinter.) But in between the political battles and the actual battle-battles, were the long stretches of road that they traversed. Long stretches that Lavellan couldn’t seem to help but fill with idle chatter.

When they had first arrived in the Emerald Graves, Lavellan recited what lore he could remember about the Emerald Knights, his eyes sparkling when he spoke of their wolf companions. Several days following, Lavellan had thoroughly exhausted his knowledge of the area and instead talked mostly about bread. He chittered along with the rest of the birds in the forest, not seeming to mind if his companions tuned him out, but he did have a knack for shutting up before it could annoy any of them too badly. As Dorian grew used to traveling with Lavellan, he thought that it was a little like being near the ocean and listening to the waves break on the shore; a familiar white noise in the background.

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian said. On their way back to Direstone Camp after clearing out Chateau d’Onterre, Lavellan engaged Varric in a lively conversation about backflips and, more specifically, how to use backflips for murder. Dorian was actually quite certain that he had heard the Inquisitor correctly, but it was so ridiculous that he wanted to hear him say it again.

“The stab-and-flip,” Lavellan repeated. He made an arching, swooping motion with his hands that failed to convey anything. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. You’ve seen Cole do it, too. Though, perhaps I should refer to one of our more corporeal companions.”

“It’s more of a shoot-and-flip for me and Bianca,” Varric said.

“Yes, _t_ _ha_ _t_ I can recall in vivid detail,” Dorian conceded. “Watching a dwarf spring from the ground and backflip through open air has left quite the impression on me.”

“We do make a dazzling pair. I’m not surprised you were awestruck.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. For the entirety of this trip, she had felt as though Varric and Dorian were competing in narcissism for the sole purpose of annoying her. (She was right, of course, but no one wanted to be responsible for telling her so.)

“I have an idea that I want your help with, Dorian,” Lavellan continued, gesturing more slowly, “I jump on a villain and stab them, jump off, then you shoot a fireball while I’m up in the flip part. Just be sure to hit them before I come down, right?”

“So, you want me to shoot at you, on purpose, but not hit you.”

“Exactly.”

Dorian nodded slowly with mock-thoughtfulness. “I could try stepping to the side and shooting them anyway, without hitting you at all.”

“But what if you _have_ to be behind me?”

“You’re thinking about corridors. Fighting in narrow spaces,” Cassandra said as the realization came to her. “You did hit a few door frames in the Chateau.”

“I’m a terrible forest heathen, remember?” Lavellan traced the vallaslin on his nose with a rude finger, grinning when Cassandra scowled at him. “All these encounters with proper civilization leave me at a loss when it comes to _shemlen_ and their love of walls.”

“I did not mean to offend, Inquisitor. It is commendable that you are always thinking of ways to improve.”

Lavellan seemed to realize that he was being paid a compliment, even though Cassandra’s scowl had barely lessened. He stepped closer and offered her an apologetic smile. “Cassandra, my first memory of you involves me waking up handcuffed on the floor of a jail. You can call me ‘Bel,’ I really don’t mind. In fact, I might actually prefer it.”

“Very well,” Cassandra said.

A silence followed as Lavellan waited in vain for her to continue. Cassandra didn’t smile, but there was something akin to mirth in the slight lift of her eyebrow and he came to the conclusion that she was getting back at him for being disagreeable. Lavellan pursed his lips together and sighed quietly through his nose before turning back to Dorian with a bright expression. “Anyway, I want to practice a bit while we’re out in the trees. You don’t have to be behind me right now, but try to think about the timing. And if there’s anything I could be doing better, let me know.”

“I suppose a signal will do, for a start.”

“I can see how that would be helpful. For starting out, I think it would be best if I do something obvious and shout, ‘Shoot now, Dorian!’”

“Never let anyone tell you that you lack discretion, Belavahnis.”

Lavellan’s smile flickered, the corners of his mouth pulling too tight for a fraction of a second. “I never do. And just ‘Bel’ will do, please.”

Dorian-- who was often slow to respect the signs of danger even if he knew they were there-- said, “Is having a nickname another part of the Inquisitor’s charm? To foster an air of familiarity and dispel those rumors about your being a fearsome, wild heathen?”

“No.” Lavellan’s smile was gone. “It’s because none of you _shem_ _s_ can say my name correctly, and I would hear it shortened rather than butchered. You may address me by my given name when it doesn’t sound like refuse in your mouth.”

Lavellan pulled ahead so that he was walking in step with Cassandra once more. Dorian, looking more than a little put out, fell back a step and endured Varric’s amused chuckle.

“You’re not a ‘ _shem_.’ Do you get to call him by his full name?”

“I haven’t felt the need to tempt fate.” Varric regarded Dorian. “Far be it from me to offer advice that I haven’t been paid for, but maybe you might want to try a little harder not to test the temper of the only man standing between you and the wolves.”

“And by ‘wolves’ you mean Mother Giselle?”

“I would never say that,” Varric said with a smile.

Dorian was well aware that a rogue’s charisma was just another weapon in their arsenal, but even if he didn’t quite like Varric as a person, Dorian appreciated him all the same. “I don’t doubt our dear leader’s skill set, but he can be overly abrasive. It’s a marvel that he manages to be so infuriating and so charming in the same breath.”

“Is that so?”

Dorian detected a note of mirth in Varric’s voice. “What?”

“People could say the same thing about you, Sparkler.”

“Liar. I know you southerners are all completely immune to my charms.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


The Emerald Graves unsettled Dorian. He always felt as though he were being watched, like there was someone standing just outside the range of his vision. Although he had been camping with the Inquisitor on these excursions for weeks now, sleeping outdoors was still something of a novelty to Dorian. It was certainly easier to fall asleep on days where they exhausted themselves, but sometimes he would lie awake for hours, listening to the unfamiliar night sounds of the woods around them.

That particular morning, Dorian woke well before dawn. The tent was still dark and the camp was still quiet, but he was convinced that his bedroll had been laid on top of a root and gave up on the idea of returning to sleep. Dorian got up and prepared himself for the day as noiselessly as possible, doing his best not to disturb Varric as he left the tent. Above the forest canopy, the sky was tinged purple with the very beginnings of pre-dawn light and the ground was wet with dew. A few of the scouts were also waking up and they nodded in acknowledgment to Dorian as they went about their routine.

Dorian’s neck prickled uncomfortably with the feeling that he was being watched again. He turned and nearly jumped out of his skin to find Lavellan standing next to him. Lavellan smirked and put a finger over his lips to indicate silence, his eyes glinting unnaturally in the dark. He motioned for Dorian to follow him as he lead the way into the trees. Dorian considered just staying where he was, but he huffed and went after him anyway. He knew that the Inquisitor would sometimes go out for walks in the morning, he had just never been awake early enough to see him do it.

Dorian made a small, glowing orb for light but Lavellan hissed at him. “Put it out.”

“It’s too dark for me,” Dorian whispered, even as he willed the light to go out. That was another thing he hated about the Emerald Graves; the trees were so dense that the nights here seemed darker than normal.

“Stay behind me.” Lavellan’s voice was low and soft, but it carried easily in the stillness of the morning air. He didn’t give Dorian any room to argue, continuing to walk ahead without waiting for a response, but the message was clear: ‘my walk, my rules.’

Dorian caught up to him in one long stride, following Lavellan’s silhouette; a moving patch of darkness in the rest of the darkness. They walked more quickly than he would have liked, but Lavellan guided him around the troublesome roots that littered the floor of the Graves, not giving Dorian the opportunity to complain about tripping. Their pace slowed as Lavellan brought them to a grassy slope and Dorian could hear the sound of water, the trees thinning out so he could see a little better. The lingering moonlight reflected here and there off the shifting surface ahead of them, revealing a stream. The grass beneath their feet turned into gravel, then to sand, until at last they stood at the edge of the water. As Lavellan crouched down and splashed some water onto his face, Dorian realized that this was probably the longest he had ever heard him go without talking. Well, time to fix that.

“Do you never sleep?” Dorian whispered. “How can you be both the last to bed and first to rise?”

Lavellan made a soft sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. He stood, wiping the last of the water from his jaw. “I sleep a lot better here than I do at Skyhold.”

Carefully, Dorian asked, “Is this perhaps related to your aversion of walls?”

“In a way. My quarters are perfectly fine, but I suppose I’m too used to sleeping with other people around.” Lavellan paused and Dorian thought that maybe he was frowning. “Not that we were all on top of each other, it’s just… never mind.”

Dorian sometimes felt like the emotional equivalent of a bull in a china shop, but he could sense that there was something delicate hanging in the air between them. “Do you miss your family? Your clan?”

“More than I thought I would,” Lavellan admitted. “Do you miss Tevinter?”

“More than I care to admit. For all its faults, I do miss the comforts of my homeland.”

“Like what?”

“The food, for one thing. The heat, for another.” Dorian shivered but it had nothing to do with the chill of the early morning air. “This place… don’t you feel like we’re being watched?”

“Yes. But probably not the same way you do.” Lavellan raised his head and pointed his chin somewhere to Dorian’s left.

Dorian turned his head slowly, following the Inquisitor’s gaze. A short ways downstream, standing perfectly still beneath the branches of a willow, were a pair of halla looking right back at them. Their eyes sparkled in the dark, like Lavellan’s, and their fur was so white that they almost seemed to glow, making them ethereal and specter-like. “Oh.”

Lavellan bit his lip to silence a laugh. He started walking again, leading them back into the woods, but surprised Dorian by continuing the conversation. “You’ve never struck me as a morning person.”

Dorian fell into step behind him, lowering his voice as they reentered the trees. Thankfully, there was more light now as the hour drew closer to dawn. “I’m not. I’m simply unaccustomed to sleeping in the dirt and my body will only allow it for so long.”

“Dorian, what was camping in Ferelden like before you came to Redcliff?”

“It’s wasn’t so bad until the last few days. Well, with the exception of that ever pervasive dog stench. I knew enough to stay away from the main roads and that it was better for to avoid a fight than to win one.”

“You traveled alone?”

“Yes. Eventually, I ran out of provisions and had a memorable first encounter with a mabari, but I was still lucky enough to arrive at Redcliff a day ahead of you. Felix was able to conceal my presence long enough for me to get a hot bath, a good meal, and a clean shave. I had to be looking my best to meet the famed Herald, after all.”

“You certainly did make an impression,” Lavellan said. “It’s a good thing that we met the way we did, or I would probably hate you.”

Dorian restrained himself from making a quip about the benefits of irresponsible time magic. He remembered how the Inquisitor had looked right after the mess with Alexius had been sorted; after the Venatori had been cleared out, the mages dealt with, and it was down to just the Inquisitor and his circle again. Lavellan had immediately thrown up into the nearest decorative vase, making a joke about motion sickness after he finished ruining what had probably been a priceless antique.Dorian saw the wide-eyed stare Lavellan had given Iron Bull and Sera when their backs were turned; his eyes shining with a mix of horror, grief, and pride.

“If that’s what you would prefer, then you’re free to hate me,” Dorian said. “I do like to indulge in the empathy gained from a shared traumatic experience now and then, but I’ll understand if you find it tedious.”

Lavellan hummed thoughtfully and slowed to a stop, crouching to examine a patch of purple flowers at the base of a tree. He gently brushed a finger on a small cluster of the vibrant petals. “I do hate your stupid, glamorous Tevinter magister act--”

“Not a magister, and you think I’m glamorous?”

“Shut up.” Lavellan plucked one of the flowers and stood, leveling a critical stare at Dorian. “Despite what you would have me believe, I know that underneath all that pride, pomp, and circumstance, you’re an actual person with a good heart.”

“Do refrain from saying that where people could hear you.”

Lavellan grabbed a strap on Dorian’s armor and gave it a sharp tug, effectively startling Dorian and bringing him a step closer. He held onto the strap and with his other hand he threaded the stem of the flower around a toggle. “Before all of this is over, I swear I’ll make you say something honest.”

It sounded like a threat, but Dorian’s ears burned. A breeze rustled the trees and blew Lavellan’s hair into his eyes, but Dorian’s hand brushed it back. He had moved reflexively, but it might have been worth the cryptic look that Lavellan gave him for doing so. Dorian smiled and took a step back, their hands falling away from each other, but the flower was secured to his armor. “Good luck with that.”

  
  



End file.
